the delicate canopy now unfolding from the ejection seat. If it
touched even one of the thin strands, or licked a panel of the
unfolding parachute, it wouldn’t matter whether he survived the
ejection. The fall alone, five thousand feet to the warm,
blood-temperature sea, would kill him.
0517 Local (+5 GMT) Fulcrum 101
As his night vision started to return, Santana rolled his aircraft over
inverted and looked up at the canopy now pointed down at the sea,
searching the sky for parachutes.
There was no chance, really, that the Americans had managed to
escape.
Still, he wanted to make sure that the pilot who had dared to challenge
him died with his aircraft.
Even though the man had been fatally insolent in targeting his MiG,
Santana wished him a good death. One in midair, inside the aircraft,
not killed by the uncertain vagaries of ejection or smashed against the
hard surface of the ocean below. He wished the man a good death, but a
death nonetheless.
0517 Local (+5 GMT) Tomcat 202
“Jesus!” Tombstone slammed his eyelids shut, too late.
‘Tomboy, lost my night vision. What’s around us?”
“I thought you were going to stay clear of the furball,” his RIO
snapped back. “One straggler dogfight in the area, and you wander into
the middle of it. Didn’t I tell you to” “Where is the MiG now?”
Tombstone demanded. “Give me a vector.”
“He’s breaking off and RTB,” Tomboy reported after a slight pause.
“The Tomcat it exploded midair.”
“Any chutes?” Perhaps his RIO’s night vision had survived the fireball
in front of him.
“I think I seeyes, one. No, make that two. I’d call it good chutes,
but who can tell from here?”
Tombstone reported the engagement and the presence of two probable
parachutes settling into the water below to the carrier. With any
luck, Jefferson’s SAR would be on top of the aviators before Cuba could
vector in any small boats to pick them up. Had he had the time, he
would have stayed overhead himself, circling and providing cover from
surface attack with his guns.
But he couldn’t. Not if he intended to accomplish his mission and get
the information back to the carrier in time to make a difference in
this battle. He hoped the downed aviators would understand. He wasn’t
so certain that he would, in the same position.
Jefferson acknowledged Tombstone’s call for SAR, and reported that the
Angel helicopter was inbound his location.
Tombstone acknowledged the transmission with a brief click, then turned
his attention back to his mission. Moments later, the verdant
landscape of Cuba, now a dim watercolor engraved in black, rushed by
below his aircraft.
Feet dry.
Tuesday. 02 July 0600 Local (+5 GMT) Western Coast of Cuba By the time
Sikes and his cadre reached the beach, the sun was already nibbling
away at the darkness that had been their primary protection. Behind
them, they could hear sirens and explosions. Whether it was a new
attack by the American forces, one not noted in the original plan, or
simply secondary detonations of munitions lockers and stored aviation
fuel, they didn’t know. And it didn’t matter, really. What was
important was that the chaos on the base was providing a needed
distraction while they made good their egress. Sikes glanced back at
Drake and Thor. The Marine was holding up as well as he’d boasted he
would, and had not even broken a sweat on the quick run-jog back to the
beach. Drake now that was a different matter. She had guts, he had to
admit. She was clearly exhausted, at the very edge of her endurance,
yet was grimly putting one foot in front of the other as fast as she
could. She had slowed down a little, but not much. Then again,
sometimes “not much” was the difference between life and death.
When they reached the point where they’d stashed their wet suits, Sikes
parked the two in deep cover while the SEALs quickly slipped back into
their gear. Minutes later, he rejoined them, his face mask hanging
down around his chin. “As I asked earlier how well do you swim?”
“Well enough,” Drake answered immediately. She looked over at Thor.